Coping
by jibber59
Summary: Sometimes the hardest realities to accept are that way for a reason.
1. Chapter 1

_OK - a bit outside of my usual format, but my brain kept insisting it go this way. Kind of stream of consciousness for a lot of the story, and yes, kind of the choppy style is intentional Hope it works for you._

 **It was as if his mind was refusing to accept delivery on messages he didn't want to receive.**

No. He wasn't going to think about what was happening. He'd respond to it, but he wasn't going to think about it. Not yet. Denial. That should do, and he fully intended to stick with that option for as long as possible. Problem was, that wasn't how he worked. He'd seen, and caused, far too much pain and too much death to allow delusion to be part of his world. As much as he'd like to deny, that card wasn't there for him to play.

The echoes of the explosion still rang in his ears. He didn't imagine it would ever go away. He'd been the target all along. An elaborate scheme, concocted by an old enemy. Make him hurt. No, make him suffer. Take away his world. The team was lured in. Trap set, with him just far enough away to be totally useless to them. All he had was the taunting voice on the phone – "you'll never get to them in time. You'll hear them scream, smell the burning flesh, but you'll be too late to do a damn thing." Scramblers disabled the earbuds – no communications. No way to warn them they were about to die. No way to admit his responsibility to them, to acknowledge his failure. No way to let them know how sorry he was – not that it would matter to them.

He tried to get to them. Ran faster than he ever had before, than he ever imagined he could. The pain in his chest was only partially due to his pounding heart and bursting lungs. He knew he was screaming to them, trying to be heard from an impossible distance. He had reached the warehouse, just steps from the entrance when everything that mattered in his life ended.

The force blew him back. He didn't register the sensation of slamming to the ground. His brain had already started to numb him in shock and denial. Heat drifted over him. Warmth was supposed to be comforting. It was supposed to help. All it did was make him feel how suddenly cold he was – frozen inside. The sounds were the worst. He could hear the screaming, the shrieks of agony. At least, he thought he could. But that made no sense. No one could have survived that blast. He was surrounded by nothing but splintered wood that seconds earlier had been the death trap his friends walked into – because he had sent them there. The voices, the screams from the flames, called to him. Calling his name. Calling for him to join them, beckoning him in. Oh please God – they weren't real. It was all in his head – in had to be. Their deaths were bad enough – please don't let them be suffering like that.

He knew he should try to sit up, but couldn't convince himself it was worth the effort. Stretched out on the ground he could focus on the sky and not deal with the carnage that surrounded him. His brain would allow him only a few seconds of denial, a few seconds to ignore the nightmare. That was all this was – another terror to populate his restless nights. The ash, smoke and soot around him belied the deceptions he told himself.

Sirens. Another slap from reality. He should leave. If he stayed, there would be questions, official questions. He had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with anyone official. They would want to know who, and why and all of the other details he wasn't ready to face. This wasn't the time. He had other priorities. He had a job to finish. The team wouldn't approve of it – they wouldn't approve of the plan already forming in his head. But they weren't there to object; weren't there to stop him. That was the whole point.

"Don't go down that path." "Don't go back to being that guy." "Don't get yourself killed." None of that mattered now. Nothing mattered now. No – one thing mattered. He could dress it up and call it justice or retribution but the truth was not that noble or respectable. This was complete blood lust. Vengeance in the purest form. It was all he could focus on now.

He pushed himself to stand, fighting off vertigo, the blurred vision and the pounding in his head. He barely made two steps before collapsing. Putting weight on the leg broken from the blast sent knives of pain through him. He dropped in agony, unprepared for the trauma his body received. He hadn't allowed himself to accept that he might have been injured, and with no chance to convince himself it was mind over matter, his body reacted. The shriek of pain and immediate collapse caught the attention of those around him. Were the first responders arriving here already? They were beside him in seconds, talking to him, calming him – or at least trying to. He knew they were speaking, but he couldn't concentrate on what they were saying. All he could hear were the voices already haunting him. He wanted out – he needed to get away from them, from here. He had more important things to deal with. He could feel himself being tended to. Gently prodded and lifted to a stretcher. No one was listening to him; they didn't even seem to hear him speak. But they were watching him – closely. OK - he could go along for the ride. At least it would take him from this place. He could easily slip out in the confusion of an ER. Grab some crutches and quietly slip out to take care of business. For now though, he'd let the strangers think they were in charge.

One minute he was on the ground, the next in a small white room with monitors and people with worried faces. No one was talking to him. No questions, no give and take of info, no interaction at all. He heard the word shock mentioned once or twice as they spoke over him, past him as if he wasn't there. That was fine with him. He'd play the docile patient if it meant they left him alone. Alone, he could find a way out of this place.

And maybe they were right – maybe he was in shock. He didn't really remember getting to the hospital, or getting patched up at all. But he could feel the bandages, the weight of something – a cast? – on his leg. He heard the steady pulsing of the monitors. He tried to lift his head to look, or even just turn it, but he was too sluggish. Too weary to make the effort. Damn – that probably meant medications. That would hamper his escape from this temporary prison. No way of getting out until his head cleared. Okay. A couple of hours rest wouldn't hurt. He could use it to his advantage. He needed to be on his game; to be sharp for the job ahead. How the plan ended for him didn't matter. It only mattered that he could see it through to the end. It would be bloody and brutal, and he was fine with that. More than fine.

He'd have to figure out who he could trust. He'd need a few jobs done that were outside his areas of expertise. And for this job, he needed the best. Well, the best that was available. He couldn't have the best. They were gone.

The best hacker. The smartest guy he'd ever known. Had he ever told him that? He couldn't remember. Probably not. That wasn't who he was. Idiot. Now he never could. The best thief. Crazier than any other 10 people put together, but absolutely the best. The best grifter. Could con anyone, anywhere, anytime. Except a theatre critic. But take her off the stage and put her in the middle of a con and she was freaking brilliant. The Mastermind. Unequaled. If he'd been so inclined, he probably could have taken over the world. But he'd rather take down the bad guys.

What had ever made him think he belonged with these people? They were the best, and clearly he was not. If he'd been even half as good as they were, they'd be here now. And they weren't. Because of him. Because of his past. Because of his failure. He would make it right – or at least as right as it could be. It would never really be right again. Nothing would. If it meant his last breath, well he was fine with that too. He couldn't see much point in going on once this job was done anyway.

Damn sedatives. He couldn't concentrate. Couldn't plan. Wasn't even sure what was going on around him anymore. That was the problem with drugs. Yeah, they took away the pain, but they took away the control. He hated losing control. Everything was about control. The situation, the plan, the actions. If you weren't in control, then things could – would – go wrong. Very wrong. Fatally wrong. He couldn't afford to lose control. Couldn't afford to lose anything else. He'd lost too much.

OK – maybe if he closed his eyes for a minute he could centre himself. Regroup.

Faces. He can see their faces. They are looking at him. Counting on him. Beseeching him to come for them. He can't answer them. He has no voice. Can't tell them what he wants to say. What could he say? "I'm coming" – too late. "I'm sorry" – that fixes nothing. Worse than useless. Why are they even speaking to him? Don't they know what he did? Don't they know this is his fault? He killed them. He killed them all. Maybe they do know. Maybe that is why they are calling him. He should be with them. He should have died with them. He should have died instead of them. He has no right to be alive. And he won't be for much longer. They need to know that. He just needs to do this one last job. It won't help them. Nothing will. But it has to be done. It is the only way he can even come close to saying he is sorry. It isn't enough, but it's all he has left. Then he'll be with them. They deserve the chance to condemn him. To damn him.

He couldn't think about it anymore – not now. He was too tired. Too confused. There was just too much pain. Too much misery. Nothing was more important than this job and he couldn't even focus on that. He was going to fail them again. He had to come up with the plan. The perfect plan. Worthy of them. He could tell them he'd done his best for them, and that this time it was enough. They deserved nothing less. He had to fight the desire to just drift away. It wasn't time for that. He deserved that fate, but it wasn't time now. He was going to get past this exhaustion, this emotional and physical brick wall. He`d get over that, do what needed to be done. Then he'd face the consequences.

* * *

They sat quietly by his bed, watching for any indication he was coming back. The monitor showed periodic spikes in brain activity, in breathing and heart rate. It showed he was still in there, somewhere. At some level, he was still there. Restless, agitated, suffering. They needed to reach him. He`d been catatonic almost since arriving at the hospital, since a panic attack and seizure, in the ER. The doctor had said he`d been incoherent, muttering "my fault" and "killed them" just before the seizure. Not surprising. He'd been slammed into a wall by the force of the shock wave emanating from the explosion that had destroyed the building they'd been in a moment before. He didn't know they'd gotten out. They tried to tell him, but couldn't. They'd heard his shouts. Didn't know what he was saying, but the tone left nothing to the imagination. The fact the comms weren't working had already raised suspicions. Eliot screaming and running was all the confirmation they needed to head for the nearest exit. One he couldn't see. One he didn't know they'd found.

They didn't know how Eliot knew about the bomb, or why he running toward certain death. OK, that part wasn't true. They knew exactly why. And what was horrifying was the realisation they couldn't stop him. Parker tried to let him know – tried to come from behind the coverage they'd found when she saw he was going to enter the building. Hardison grabbed her and pulled her back just as the blast erupted. She wouldn't have reached Eliot in time, and likely would have ended up dead herself. He couldn't let that happen. It would have destroyed him, and destroyed Eliot. The very thing he was risking his life to prevent would have been his fault. Even for a man who hid his emotions so deeply, the pain of that reality would have been too much to bear.

They'd watched as the force picked him up and tossed him like a rag doll into the wall of the next building. They'd seen him crumple to the ground, then force himself up, starring at the carnage. He tried to move forward and failed, collapsing once again. Then time lost all relevance. Everything took just seconds, but seconds took forever. They'd talked to him, begged him to stay with them, to come back to them. He didn't see them. He thrashed, he mumbled, he rambled. He fought them. It all made a sad, tragic kind of sense. He didn't know they were there with him. Didn't know they were safe. They had to find a way. To give him a reason to come back. Before they had the chance he was gone – transported to trauma care, where things had gone from bad to worse. Catatonic, the doctor told them. Physical and psychological shock. No shit!

And while he was oblivious on a physical level he was mentally hyperactive. Nightmares, hallucinations, delusions, all controlling his mind. But to him, not a delusion – to him it was reality. A reality to distressing to deal with. A reality that pulled him further and further away from them. They had to find a way to break through to him, before he was gone forever.

* * *

He could feel them staring at him. They hadn't stopped. They wouldn't. Why should they. They were calling him to come with them, and he didn't argue they had that right. Why couldn't he make them understand he wasn't ready? He had to finish things first. Then he would face them. Face their disappointment, their wrath, their loathing. Someone else had to pay first, and then he would take his punishment, whatever they wanted. But he was not going to let them down a second time. Why couldn't they understand that?

* * *

In the 12 or so hours they had been with him he'd shown no signs of coming back. His vital signs were stable. Not as strong as they could be, but stable. His brain wave activity was another matter. He went from barely there, not reacting to any stimuli, to tossing and trashing on the bed. The hospital had brought in restraints, but the team refused to allow him to be bound. If he woke up strapped down, captive, the results wouldn't be pretty. Even a subconscious awareness of the act could be enough to keep his mind locked away from them. As it was he flinched and fought every touch from diagnostic exam to the gentle brushing of hair from his eyes. No contact was welcomed.

In between the extremes of stillness and violent lashing out was the almost constant fluttering movement of his eyelids. More than once he opened his eyes, but there was nothing but a blank stare, lasting only a second or two before they closed again. The final flutter that would bring him back never came. And so they waited.

 _TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

He had no idea how long he'd been here. Time was non-existent now. An hour? A day? Longer? He didn't understand he was here. He had things to do. Important life and death things. He knew he had to leave, to take care of his responsibilities. There were just two problems with that. He couldn't really seem to move, and he could not for the life of him remember what it was he had to do. He'd have to ask the team; they'd let him know what he'd forgotten. Parker and Hardison would tease him about it, Sophie would worry about the fact he forgot and Nate – well Nate would just be Nate. But they could tell him what he'd forgotten. All he had to do was find them. Where were they?

Oh God! His team. His friends – his family. It wasn't true. It wasn't real. He tried to move, to wake up from what had to be another nightmare, but couldn't. The flash of the explosion played over again in his mind. Then he felt the hands on him, holding him. The voices, trying to coax him forward. The voices were from his team. But they couldn't be. There was no team anymore. But there were voices, faces flashing around him. Ghosts. They were his victims. They knew he was coming, and they were waiting for him. There was justice waiting for him, and it was nothing he didn't have coming, in spades. He was ready to face it. He deserved it all. And he didn't have the desire to fight it any longer. It was easier to surrender. For the first, and what he knew would be the last, time he was ready to admit the bad guys won. The bastards had beaten him and he needed to accept that. As he allowed himself to drift off for the last time, he swore he heard a sad and despondent Parker speaking to him. He had no idea what she was saying, and even though he knew it was another hallucination, it served a purpose. The never say die rebel that had defined his life was awakened. Surrender was not a word in his vocabulary. There was retribution to be had – scales to be balanced. He could accept the punishment and castigations coming to him, but not before he had finished his work. There were two men responsible for the death of his friends, and he was going to make sure the other one paid as well.

* * *

Once again they thought he was coming back, and once again he pulled away. Each time he left it seemed a little further, a little more distant. Whatever resolve he initially had was weakening. They became increasingly concerned that the next step back would be his last; the one that took him over that precipice he was hanging over.

They talked, argued quietly amongst themselves, over how to reach him. Medical advice was offering slim hopes with no promises at all. Drug therapy, electroshock, even pulling the plug. None of the options were on the table as far as the team was concerned. There was no patience for waiting it out, and no desire to subject Eliot to experiments. Not now was the decision of half the team, not ever was the vote of the others.

Somehow, there had to be another way. Another option. Find the reason he fought them, why he wouldn't come back. Find the reason he was hanging on, and use that to bring him forward, out of his limbo. Parker couldn't understand why he wouldn't come back to his family. Hardison speculated that he was angry at them for getting him hurt- again. Sophie feared he'd simply had enough pain and suffering and was too tired to fight anymore. Nate, as always, put all of their unique perspectives together to come up with the answer. This is what made the team work – the whole once again was even better than the sum of its extremely gifted parts.

They had all been close to the answer, all possessing a part of it. Parker was right – he wouldn't leave them. But he thought they were gone. His few words had been telling them he believed they were dead. Which he why Hardison had the right idea, but backwards. He wasn't mad at them for getting him hurt, he was mad at himself for getting them killed. For failing to rescue them. More than mad – he was responsible, and would pay the price for that. When Nate closed his eyes he could see Eliot running straight into the explosion, knowing he couldn't save them, refusing to let that stop him.

And that was where Sophie was right. Eliot was too tired, too hurt to deal with it. To deal with what he would see as his failure. They'd heard him back on the hard concrete when this all started. He'd killed them. All that remained for Eliot was grief and guilt. And it had become more than he could cope with. So he wasn't going to.

Nate moved his chair as close to the bed as he could, and for the first time he started to speak to him, not at him. He kept his voice firm, fighting the emotion that tried to break through. He had to smother the anxious feeling and fear. He reached out, forcing his hands to stop trembling. There could be no sense of hesitation or uncertainty. He placed one hand over Eliot's heart, the other on his head. Instinctively the hitter tried to pull away but Nate kept his hands in place. Not grabbing, not forcing, but a gentle steady pressure to send the message that he wasn't going anywhere, and neither was Eliot.

"Listen to me. Focus on just my voice, my hands. They're real Eliot. Not hallucinations, not wishful thinking, not ghosts. Real. I'm here. We all are. Nobody died Sophie is here. Hardison is here. Parker is here. You didn't lose anyone. You warned us in time. You saved us Eliot. You always do. Now we need you do come back to us. Nobody died, and we want to keep it that way. Whatever is wrong, we can fix it. Together. We need you back to keep us together. We aren't a team without you Eliot. Do you get that? Do you get that we NEED you back?"

Slowly, the others add their hands to Nate's, sharing the reality of their existence. Gently letting Eliot feel their presence.

* * *

They were reaching for him again. This couldn't go on. He had to find a way to stop them, to hold them off. At least for now. He needed time to – he couldn't remember any more why he needed time, what needed to be done, but there was something – wasn't there?

This time it felt different. They weren't pulling at him, weren't forcing him. They were softer. Quieter? Was this goodbye? They were leaving him. They'd given up. Somehow, this felt worse. Even if they stayed only to berate him, to condemn him, at least they were here. Still part of his world. But now he really would be alone. That never would have bothered him in the past. He worked alone, lived alone. Liked alone. Solitude was his friend. The original lone wolf. But now – now he was stunned to realize that he needed them. He had to let them know he needed them – wanted them to stay. He tried to speak, and couldn't. Couldn't let them hear what was in his heart. And he knew he had to let them go. He had no right to hold on. All he could do was listen to their final words to him. They were asking him to listen, and he owed them at least that. So, for the first time since the blast blew apart his world, he stopped thinking, and started listening.

No – their words were lies. What he wanted to hear. He'd seen them die. Seen everything shatter. Yet here was Nate – Nate's voice – saying they were there, alive, waiting for him to wake up. No. The building blew up – he saw it. It was too late. Wasn't it? Could they have gotten out? How?

He had failed in warning them. They hadn't acknowledged him. Could any of this be real? He focused on the hands he felt. They were warm. They were solid. They were real. This wasn't some ethereal spirit. These weren't the angels he vaguely remembered from long ago Sunday school. These were flesh and bone hands. Real voices. Reaching for him, steering him forward. Leading him to life, not death.

Was it part of the delusion? One final evil mind game. There was only one way to find out. He was afraid to try it. He had faced gun fire, knives, torture, and more with no second thoughts, but the idea of opening his eyes right now terrified him. If this one last shred of hope was crushed, he knew he was done. And if done, there would be no chance for justice for his friends. But, if it was real, then the blood debt did not need to be paid. Oh, he would still need to neutralize the threat, but there were ways of doing that. Especially with his team by his side to help. They'd lay the ground work, he'd finish the job. Keeping them clean, keeping them safe. That was what he did.

It could all work out if he could just bring himself to take the chance. To trust in what he wanted so badly. More than life itself. And when it came down to it, he knew he had no choice. He had to try, and to take that final risk. Had to know. No more stalling.

Slowly, almost glacially so, he opened his eyes. He was in a hospital. That much of his nightmare had been right. There were wires and tubes over and around him. He could see a woman briskly walking toward him. Dark hair, tall, striking figure. Sophie! She was here, it was real and everything was going to be alright. Then she spoke.

"Welcome back Mr. Stevens. You've had us all pretty worried. My name is Dr. Malloy. Can you understand me? Mr. Stevens? Eliot? Open your eyes. Come on. I know you're in there. Stay with us here. Eliot?" She gently tapped at his face, held his hand. There was no response. He closed his eyes and faded back into the darkness.

He should have known better. In his heart, he did. He'd seen the explosion, seen and heard the ghosts haunting him since. Why did let himself believe, even for a moment? That moment, that fleeting feeling of hope left him now more lost than he had been before.

People like him didn't get miracles in their lives. He was alone, as he was always meant to be. He had to focus on his mission, his only remaining purpose. He didn't know if it was enough to keep him going, but he was going to fight to find out.

* * *

"He was awake for just a moment – the monitor reflected an slight increase in the brain activity. An effort to return to consciousness. Then he slipped back." Dr. Malloy looked at the foursome in front of her and could feel the disappointment and grief radiating from them. They had stepped away for just a few minutes, to meet with Eliot's primary physician. Reviewing options. That was the moment he had elected to come back, and no one was there waiting for him. Four days of nothing, and he wakes up the moment they leave.

"Did he say anything? Did he seem to know where he was?" Nate felt tired and beaten. He was trying desperately to get some send of hope back, not just for the others, but for himself as well. Trying to stir the embers of a rapidly fading flame.

"I'm sorry – there was no indication of conscious activity. As I said, there was a small increase of activity on the monitor, but really, this was more a reflex – an autonomic response. You mustn't torture yourselves over this. I doubt very much he would have been aware of your presence if you had been here."

"He would have noticed." Parker spoke softly, but with certainty. "He would have known. Now he thinks we've abandoned him – given up. How could we do that to him Hardison? Why didn't one of us stay?" She turned quietly, leaning into him for support, and he reached his arms around her to offer what he could.

"He'll be back girl. Eliot doesn't know how to quit."

Nate nodded his agreement, hoping his face showed more conviction than his heart felt. Sophie slipped her hand into his, as she too hoped the mass delusion could somehow become reality.

The vigil continued. Every so often one of them believes they see signs of his return, a flicker of the eyelid, a twitch of the hand, even a hint of a smile on his face. The moment passes, unconfirmed by the others, or more importantly, by the man himself. He was never left alone, even for an instant. Day turns to night and back to day over and over again. No one leaves till someone else arrives. No one sleeps in the chair pulled right next to the bed. No one reads or looks at their phones. They keep their eyes locked on him. Hold his hand, stroke his forehead, brush back the odd hair blown by the gentle breeze from the air vents. Watching for any sign.

When he wasn't with Eliot, Nate searched for the instigator of the tragedy. Tracking any leads, hints, notions, suggestions or hunches. Anything. They'd used every contact, every favour they had owed to them, all to no good. The players in their world were all too insignificant to seek vengeance on this scale, or buried too deep to have the resources to try. Nate reached out to contacts from Eliot's past. They didn't know many, but a few sources were available to them. Most had heard what happened to Eliot – his world worked that way – and had already started looking, with the same lack of success.

Nate slept very little anymore. When he closed his eyes he saw Eliot running, charging in to save them, unaware he had already succeeded. He had succeeded. They had failed. And they were still failing him. He knew Eliot's perception of the world was the exact opposite, and he was sure that perception was what kept him from waking.

* * *

He didn't feel tired anymore. He had passed that. Exhausted, drained, depleted, shattered, consumed. Those words were closer, but still not enough. He needed a new word. Something clever and witty. Not his thing. Parker could come up with something, or Hardison would. Or Sophie, or Nate. They'd come up with something for him. He'd ask them when he saw them. And that's when it hit him again – he wasn't going to see them. And his world crashed - again. The cycle continued. Hope, despair, fatigue, surrender. Over and over. His own personal circle of hell, on an endless loop. Taking different forms, feeding different memories, but always ending badly, as he tried to cede to the grief. He'd given up on all of it. There would be no justice, at least not by his hands. He had to hope that fate, or karma, or any number of other concepts he had never believed in, would settle the debt. He was trapped in a revolving door of misery. Couldn't get out on either side – and he no longer had the strength to try. He waited until the energy simply failed.

There were moments when he was sure he could see what was waiting, just beyond his reach. They were still calling for him to join them, and he could see and hear others in the background. The other ghosts from his past. Still waiting, still planning to send him to the deepest circle of hell. He couldn't imagine what would be worse that his present repetitive world of hope and despair. Actually, he could imagine it all too well. He'd created it after all. Years of things he'd never share, now all coming back to balance the scales.

There they were again. Glimpses. Fleeting moments when the hope came back. He was tired of it all. Tired of fighting, of denying them, of trying to move on. It was time to stop. What was coming would be worse, he knew that. But he might have a few final moments to be with them again, and that was worth whatever cost followed. So, as the memory circled again, this time he reached out and allowed the team to pull him to them.

* * *

Sophie gasped when Eliot's cold hand squeezed back. She'd been stroking his wrist, speaking softly as she had for days. Then, with no warning, no hint of awareness, suddenly he was clutching her fingers, holding on as if his very life depended on maintaining the connection. And she mirrored the action, gripping his hand, begging him to come back. With her free had she stabbed at the call button, then reached up to activate her comm.

"He's coming back – he's waking up!"

It took only moments for the team to be assembled in his room. Nate had been walking – stretching his legs after hours in the chair. Parker and Hardison were a block away trying to find coffee that would meet Sophie's standards. Now they stood, huddled around the bed watching the hands that hadn't lessened their grips. Eliot squeezed again, getting a bit stronger each time. Sophie knew her hand would be sore later, and couldn't have been happier about it. Then a soft groan came from the bed. A small sound that echoed through the room.

"Eliot? It's Sophie. Come on Eliot – time to wake up. We really want you to wake up now."

"Come on man – Let's see that steely blue glare again. Need my dose of Dammit Hardison."

Once again, he found himself looking at the stark white of institutional walls, surrounded by harsh lights, beeping monitors and the overwhelming odor of disinfectants. He'd always know hospitals were hell; he'd just never figured it to be so literal. As he started to close his eyes again, hoping to get them to focus, the voices became louder and clearer.

"No Eliot, stay with us. You've got to stay with us this time." Eliot looked up to see a blurry version of Nate's face staring back at him. Taking Eliot's other hand, he leaned in close enough to fill his field of vision. "Eliot. Listen to me. We're alive, all of us. You did it. You warned us in time. You did your job. Now it's time to come home. Come on Eliot – join us."

Slowly he allowed his eyes to drift from one face to the next. They all looked real enough. Not that he knew what a ghost would look like, but somehow he figured it wouldn't be this solid, this tangible. This anxious. They looked alive.

"You're real?" he croaked, his voice raw after 9 days of silence. It was the most beautiful sound they had ever heard.

"Absolutely" Sophie sighed..

"Damn straight." Parker could hardly hold herself back from jumping on him, but somehow held back, at least for now.

He closed his eyes again, but this time the smile that came to his face kept them from panicking. He could see the other ghosts of his past dropping away, fading in the distance. He knew they'd be waiting for him, that their time would come, but not today. And when it happened, there would be 4 faces missing from the crowd, and that made the anticipation a lot less terrifying.

He opened his eyes once again to take in the relieved expressions. He had questions, and concerns, and any number of things that would need to be discussed. But not now. For now, he just wanted to take it in – revel in the fact he got the miracle he didn't deserve.

 _ **(That's all for now, maybe one day I'll let them seek revenge)**_


End file.
